


I'll Close My Eyes

by Fann (Fan_Nehan_Shinzui34)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America: The First Avenger - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnancy complications, institutionalization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2065806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fan_Nehan_Shinzui34/pseuds/Fann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1943, and Steve becomes pregnant with Bucky's child as he goes off to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We'll Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Dinah Washington's 'I'll Close My Eyes'.

It starts like this:

Bucky lays his hand on his shoulder when the arguing heightens in intensity, when it's clear that this is going to be yet another futile attempt at telling him what to do. His eyes are different, and there is a shift in his voice that isn't his usual brotherly frustration. 

"Steve." he implores quietly. " _Please_."

There's something strange about Bucky now, something unsaid that makes Steve stare at him, puzzled at his restraint. He had been ready to make another argument, to once again make the point that he needs to do more, that he needs to do _something_ even if it's simply trying, even if it's futile, especially when Bucky will be leaving to help and better the world while he won't, held back by health and assignment at birth. He hasn't had a heat, not a real one at least, in months, maybe a year. He can barely be counted as an omega, be held back by something that doesn't ( _and it_ doesn't _Bucky, it_ doesn't) make him any different than Bucky or anyone being sent out.

There is a moment where he pauses, restrained, trying to come up with something to counter Bucky's silence, his muted pleas, and try as he might, he can't. For the first time in his life, he thinks, he has nothing to say.

Bucky's arm encircle his shoulders, but it doesn't feel pressuring or controlling.

"Come on," Bucky says into his ear. "Let's go home."

There is another pause and another long, deep stare at him--searching-- before Steve acquiesces, and they head back outside.

As they do, Steve bumps into an old man with a kind face, whose bespectacled gaze lingers on him the entire way stance poised as if to tell him something.

\--

The girls make their protests when Bucky tells them that they're leaving(well Bucky's date does at least) but he is insistent, while appropriately apologetic.

"Sorry, I don't normally do this, but--something came up." he says, and then lets his voice dip with what almost sounds like sadness. "There's just too much on my mind right now."

The girls give him sympathetic looks. "It must be pretty scary, huh?" one of them says--Steve thinks her name is Betty but she never paid enough attention to him to worry herself with an introduction. She reaches for his hand, eyes filled with promise. 

"I can walk you home if you want."

And now Steve _knows_ something must be wrong, because Bucky doesn't even try to pretend as if he's considering what he normally wouldn't hesitate to take up.

Instead, his hand suddenly tightens around Steve's shoulder, just the slightest, and he politely declines.

"Sorry, doll, it's just--I think I actually want to be alone."

She looks at him, eyes drifting towards where his arm has remained wrapped around his friend in an oddly protective display of affection, and tightens her lip. 

Steve feels heat come to his face and can't meet her eyes. He has no ideas what Bucky's intentions are.

The farewells are a little cold, perfunctory.

\---

For a long moment after they walk through the door, nothing is said but a tension hums through the air, enough so that it seems Steve can no longer breathe.

It hits him then, as he looks around their shared apartment and feels the darkness and aloneness pressing in.

Bucky's leaving. 

Bucky might die.

And Steve won't be there to help him.

He suddenly feels sick.

"I can sleep on the couch this time if you want," he says pulling off his jacket. "You said you wanted to be alone--" But then suddenly Bucky is directly behind him, Bucky is turning him around and touching his face and his eyes are full of something indescribable.

"Bucky...: he breathes and he can't tell who moved first, but Bucky is kissing him now. It's breathless and frantic and Steve's shocked and confused because they've _never_ , _he's_ never but he leans into wholeheartedly all the same. 

They only pull back when Steve's breath becomes staggered and Bucky leans him against the wall, face buried into his neck. 

Steve can smell his friend's alpha-rut on him, thick and heavy over his usual soft sandalwood , and he can feel himself turning a bright red around the ears.

"I want you." Bucky gasps against him. "I've always wanted you."

They make it to their small, cramped room, and Bucky is still telling him how much he's wanted him, how much he's hoped, how much he wants to stay here, and how much he wants Steve _safe_ while he ends up on his back with Bucky's face against his neck again. And Steve argues like he couldn't earlier, overwhelmed but still fighting and Bucky laughs into his throat and then... _oh_.

\---  
They lay in each other's arms after, Bucky running a calming hand through his hair, and Steve's breath shuddering in and out of him, the knot pressed tightly inside of him, the ache of it only barely unnoticeable. Briefly Steve wonders if this should concern him, but then he remembers how many times he's used his weak biology as a defense against others trying to differentiate themselves from them and decides not to worry about it. He is surprised to feel a stab of sadness about him though. The way the two are wrapped around each other is but a mimicry of a truly bonded couple, but Steve imagines what it would be like, waking up beside Bucky every morning, a child maybe rushing into the room to wake them up.

 _But that's not what I want._ Steve reminds himself. He couldn't bear the thought of the dependence he would be forced in if Bucky marked him, the pain that would only amplify once he left. And Bucky, even if he wanted it himself would never do that to him. _Maybe not now...but maybe some day._ That thought alone shocked him.

Bucky's voice is a low rumble against his hair. "I wish there was more time." His fingers, large and comforting, run smoothing circles against Steve's wrist. "I wish I hadn't wasted so much of it before it was too late. Now there isn't any left and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, Stevie."

"Me either," he replies thickly, and tells himself it's only an allergy, his asthma that's making his eyes well up.

In the morning he'll walk with Bucky to the train station. 

Watch him go.

And so Steve holds Bucky tighter and they pretend to fall asleep.


	2. I Had The Craziest Dream

_Hey Buck,_

_I know it might seem a silly question to ask, but how are you? Holding up and being strong, I hope. I'm doing pretty decent myself, still looking for more work around here, but I should be fine for a little seeing as the rent's already been covered for this month. I've been doing odd things here and there and making enough to scrape by, but I'm looking for something steady. Other than that, nothing else is really going on back home, except that girl you used to have a shine for—Susie I think it was-- moved back in with her parents after her fella got drafted. It seems like everyone is moving in some way or another these days. A lot of things are changing as we get older. Anyway, I'll leave you with that before I start yammering too much and begin sounding like a sap._

_Your friend,_

_Steve_

Steve read the letter three times before he decided to send it, debating repeatedly on whether or not he should add more. Even signing it had proved difficult for him—he wasn't sure after what had happened if they were truly just 'friends' now. Before that night....he tightened his lip. Bucky had enough on his plate, he was sure, without worrying about some lovesick omega pining after him about romance and lovey dovey crap regardless of what had happened. The two spoke better on friendly, brotherly terms anyway, so it would be best to keep things simple, at least for now.

* * *

Loathe as he was to admit, Steve hadn't realized how much of a difference having Bucky around had made. Though, he was, as he'd told him, steadfast and determined in his search for work, the truth was there weren't many opportunities for a hundred pound asthmatic who perpetually looked on the brink of death. Steve had been laughed away from enough factory and dock jobs to know that those would never be an option, but even the smaller jobs didn't seem to be making themselves available. It didn't help that he seemed to be coming down with the flu—one potential employer turned him away thinking he had TB. But he had never backed down from a challenge before and he wasn't going to now, especially when he was on his own and people thought he'd perish without Bucky's help anyway. So he pushed through the slammed doors, and the fatigue, and the nausea, to do what he always did, and prove people wrong.

 

_Hey Bucky!_

_So I finally got some good, interesting news—do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Johnson who ran the grocer your ma used to go to? The lady recognized me on the train yesterday while she was visiting some of her family. Apparently she remembered me when we would go grocery shopping with your mom. We started talking and reminiscing on old times—well, she did, about your mom—and somehow or another I started talking about how hard it was to find a job. Turns out before their son got drafted, they were able to move their shop further uptown near Manhattan, and since their son got sent off, they've been looking for a little more help around the store, but Mrs. Johnson preferred a familiar face in a new neighborhood since there's been a string of guys posing as workers and stealing. It's a pretty long train ride, but I start next week, and my boss seems really nice and I'm finally going to be pulling my weight around here. Hopefully I get over this flu before then though. Eager to hear from you soon, and I hope you're serving well!_  
I miss you,  
Steve. 

Mrs. Johnson was a sturdy, dark-haired woman approaching her late 50s with a kind glint in her eyes and a motherly lilt to her voice. Steve could tell from the moment she looked at him in his oversized clothes, suppressing the urge to vomit at every shudder of the train, that she was assessing how she could put some weight on him, make him fill out those pants without looping the belt twice, and that was before recognition passed through her eyes. Even now, in the store, she was assessing his every movement, though the fact that Steve's motions were obviously plagued with fatigue didn't exactly make her anxieties far-fetched. Still, he couldn't stand being coddled, and so he gathered his meager strength up and looked around the brightly-colored store with a smile.

“It looks great, Mrs. Johnson.” he said cheerfully. “A lot better stocked than the ones near me and Bucky's.”

She set down her coat and gave him a fond smile. “Me and Jack are real proud of it. We started off so small.” She then turned and gestured around the spacious store. “You will be in charge of the stock, which includes counting the supplies, as well as stocking them in the morning—typically around five and six—and occasionally helping customers bag them. I expect you at work up to an hour early, and sometimes sooner, depending on the urgency. You will be paid 30 cents for every hour you work, but with time, that may change.” Mrs. Johnson gave him a sharp once over as he rubbed a nervous hand over his stomach, which no matter what he did, insisted on trying to swim out of his throat from morning til night. “Do you think you'll be able to handle that?”

Steve wrapped his arms around himself and thought about the money. “Yes, of course! I can't wait to start.”

He'd start in two weeks. Plenty of time to get better.

* * *

Steve did not get better in that time. He sent Bucky the letter a week before he was supposed to start working, head swimming and hands heavy with exhaustion, the excitement in tone a lie, and the simple 'I miss you', an even bigger one. He more than missed Bucky. There was a dull ache in his chest where his friend should be every time Steve forgot he wasn't there, when he would wake up to tell him about some dream only to find that the other wasn't in the other room having his breakfast, or when he'd find himself waiting to ask Bucky what he thought of some drawing he was in the middle of. To make matters worse he'd started having...dreams about the two of them together, of Bucky's lips pressed against his neck, his hands traveling down his stomach, things he'd never thought of before, really.

He stared up at the ceiling, hands cradling his stomach and remembered Bucky waving at him from the train, the soft kiss he placed on his forehead. His words.

Steve would wake up with the feel of Bucky on his skin, the taste of bile clawing at the back of his throat and his pillow wet with the shadow of tears.

* * *

In the two weeks before he began working for the grocer, Steve had hardly gotten out of bed, and not seeing him bustling about as he usually did must've been enough to startle the landlord's wife into action because a couple days before he started, she was knocking on his door startling him out of his sleep and poking her head in curiously. The sight of him shocked her he could see, though he hadn't bothered to look at himself in some time. Before long, and despite his protests(“please Mrs. Flanagan it's only the flu, I'll be over it soon”) she was calling in a house doctor to look him over, pushing him back into his small bed. 

“Yes, yes, dear, I understand, but if you've got anything serious I need to know before someone else gets sick.” 

Steve had blanched at that. Mrs. Flanagan wasn't a cruel woman, but he still recalled the day she and her husband had evicted a family whose son had contracted polio, and there hadn't been as big an outcry as the blond would've hoped—people were too scared, and their neighborhood too poor for anyone to want to mess around with that kind of things. Folks had their own kids to take care of and all.

So here he was, lying in bed, the smell of the doctor's cigarette making his stomach jump from the other room as he heard Mrs. Flanagan give her observations of the boy's sickness.  
 _I'll be fine._ He tried to reassure himself once more. _I can't be too sick, I have to work. It's just something that'll pass. I've gotten past everything else before._ His desperate assurances were interrupted when the doctor entered, an extremely tall, imposing bald man whose eyes scanned him with a bored and tired look. Before he even spoke to him, he was whipping out a stethoscope and placing the cold metal on his chest, his medical bag placed heavily at the foot of his bed.

“Your landlord tells me that your sickly appearance is not atypical.” the doctor said, his voice a deep, expressionless baritone. “But she's come to believe that this particular illness is more worrying than what would be usual.” He placed a gloved hand on his forehead, before ruffling through his bag and pulling out a thermometer to place in his mouth. “Can you describe your symptoms, the onset of this illness?”

“I've already told her, it's just a flu.”

The doctor gave him an inspecting look and Steve felt like sinking into the bed.

“It's just—I feel like I've been throwing up nonstop for weeks now, since my friend left. I can't keep anything down and I've been more tired than usual.”

Steve watched him ruffle through sheets of paper on the clipboard he'd brought. “Your records have you listed as an omega.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know when your last heat was?”

Steve furrowed his brow. “I don't...no. More than a few months ago, I think.” Another appraising look from the doctor made his cheeks darken, but Steve's heats had always been so irregular and weak he'd never bothered to really keep up with them and he scrambled nervously to tell him so.

The man barely seemed to pay his mutterings any mind as he once again went into his medical bag, this time pulling out a syringe.

“Have you engaged in any recent sexual activity?” he asked, pulling out the boy's arm and placing the needle against his flesh.

Steve turned red down to his chest and up his ears. “I--”

“I must advise you that this is not the time for modesty for Mr. Rogers.”

The boy licked his lips nervously. “A—a couple of weeks ago I think.” The words seemed awkward and heavy on his tongue. He closed his eyes at the memory of Bucky inside of him. “The night before my friend left.”

Cold eyes traveled up his neck. “You do not appear to be bonded.”

Steve felt his throat tighten, Bucky's breath against his ear. “No.”

The doctor looked away at the warble in his voice, giving him a second to gain his composure. 

“Your symptoms, are not, I think, cognizant with anything fatal, though your overall health places you at an elevated risk, especially as one unbonded.”

Steve looked up at him, a cold, sinking feeling replacing the nausea in his stomach. “What do you mean?”

The man stood, towering over him and tucking the syringe back into a small case from his medical bag. 

“It will take a couple of days to confirm—to use a phrase—'if the rabbit died', but from both your account and your landlord's observations, it would appear that you hold all the hallmarks of being with child. I'm going to prescribe you with a dietary plan that should help with your nausea as well as a list of recommended medicines that should alleviate any other symptoms that may arise. I would also suggest bed rest and the utilization of those that would assist you during this time. Perhaps a family member of you or your...partner's.” Steve saw his lips tighten just the slightest at that and the coldness in his belly got worse.

“My assistant should return with the medicine at the end of the week, as well as the results of the blood test. Should you require any other assistance, you will ask for Dr. Richard Sheridan at the number provided.” the doctor continued, writing on his clipboard before ripping the sheet of paper off and placing it on the desk next to the doorway. Sheridan paused before exiting. “I would suggest you find help at the earliest possible convenience, Mr. Rogers.” he told him, and then he left him alone with a soft click of the door.

 

The cold feeling persisted long after the doctor left, his hands nervously dancing over his abdomen.

_Pregnant._

The word didn't even sound right in his head. 

For the longest time the thought of Steve becoming with child had been absurd—an idle fantasy that he could put down as a callback to his natural instincts as an omega. A fantasy ultimately as fulfilling as Santa Claus to a kid living in the slums—by all accounts he'd been infertile.  
But now they were telling him that a part of Bucky was growing inside of him, a new life that he and Bucky would have to look after.

_He and Bucky..._

For a moment he pictured it; a child with Bucky's eyes, strong and healthy. Taking him to the park, making him laugh while Bucky followed behind with a smile.

_But that's not what I want_. Steve reminded himself. _It isn't._

He wanted to be overseas with Bucky, with the other brave men laying down their lives for the country. He wanted to be doing something, helping people, stopping the bullies, the monsters that hurt people that would ruin the lives of innocents and others who stood in their way. He wanted to be anything and everything but the weakling he was now, the useless drain that couldn't even get a real job, and couldn't even stay well enough for the meager one he had now.

_Bucky's lips leave his forehead as the train arrives, shattering the illusion the two had wrapped themselves in. There is a fondness in eyes as Steve promises him. Bucky's scent swept around him as he leaned into embrace him for the final time,his mouth to his ear._

Steve's face is wet with tears when Mrs. Flanagan comes in, though it takes her pointing it out before he notices.

“Bad news, dear?” she asks him. She's carrying a newspaper, who's headline--'ERSKINE ASSASSINATED'--he briefly glimpsed before he turns away in shame, suddenly aware of the frailty on his face. “The doctor wouldn't tell me, somesuch about 'patient confidentiality' or what have you. He said it wasn't anything fatal or deadly though.”

She prattled on, but Steve barely heard her.

Even his stomach seemed to have been settled into his shock.

After a while, Mrs. Flanagan seemed to grow bored with his silence, or took the hint to leave. She hesitated at his door.

“Are you going to be alright, I wonder.” she said quietly.

Steve takes a long, laborious moment to respond, but by then she's already left him to the dark, the door shutting behind her.

“I don't know.” he weakly replied into the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to once again thank the amazing shingo_the_pest for helping me with resources as well as getting me through this chapter with its multiple stops and starts and my incessant nagging. She's been a real life savor.
> 
> 'if the rabbit died' is a reference to the rabbit test, a popular form of checking for pregnancy during the 1940s.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. I haven't written anything in about two years I think, so I'm pretty rusty if you can't tell. I want to make a special shout-out to shingo_the_pest who not only has been bearing with my constant rambling regarding getting this story started, but who has also given me valuable information that will be important for upcoming chapters and has helped me get through some writers' block! 
> 
> The chapter's title is inspired by Vera Lynn's _We'll Meet Again_ released in 1939 and is one of the most famous songs of the World War II era. 
> 
> Each chapter will have a theme connected to a song from or around that era, to fit the theme of the chapter(or at least will try to) and the songs themselves will serve as sort of previews.
> 
> Next chapter will be called _I Had The Craziest Dream_ after the Harry James and Helen Forrest song released in 1942.


End file.
